


Supercut

by insupaia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, George's POV, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possible Character Death, Royalty, Royalty mixed with Ancient Greece, Slow Burn, War, i also love mcyt and ancient greece, whats going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insupaia/pseuds/insupaia
Summary: It's the height of the Peloponnesian war and George is ready to become a man in the ultimate sacrifice; giving himself up to the army. Dream is a prince and ready to bear the crown and the royal title - King of Sparta. When their lives intertwine, Dream and George are both aware of the dangerous game they’re playing. Yet the dice keep rolling and the game keeps running.But there's no winner. There never has been.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> Here we go. Ancient Greece AU, with a little Royalty AU mixed in for spiCe. I was really inspired by the book The Song Of Achilles (most beautiful book go read it) and I wanted to do something a little similar but with Dream and George ig. I'm cross-posting this on both Wattpad and AO3 under the same name (i like AO3 better don't tell anyone hehe) so check it out there if u want. 
> 
> Note that if you are sensitive to violence or war, please do not read!
> 
> Enjoy ((:

The first time George kissed a boy, he tasted blood.

The sickly sweet taste had invaded his mouth after he pulled away, breathless and panting. Delirious temptation was a burning red in his mind and his cheeks glowed pink, but not out of embarrassment. He was simply sickly and out of sorts. In no state to be out of bed, and definitely in no state to be kissing boys.

The boy died a few days later, circumstances unknown. The funeral was bland and tasteless, as George's father had put it, but there was no reason for it not to be; the boy had been a slave to the family and was in no need for an intricate celebration into the afterlife. George remembered standing in a field on a sunny day with his head down. The sun scratched his neck as he crinkled his eyes- the light made the scene nicer than it should have been. He had known why he had died but the reason would not come to shadow over him until many years later, when he would taste that trickle of blood all over again in the final phase of his passion.A passion that fed and starved, that whispered and screamed, that lived and died in the most glorious way, a burst of gold and light a-

George wiped the blood off his lips and ran away from the boy. Far, far away.


	2. The Assembly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George attends his first assembly of the year with Karl, preparing for the worst. But in the midst of unbearable heat, the gathering takes an unexpected turn.

My father couldn’t wait to send me away. 

It was clear through could tell by his sneer and knowing eyes; he was proud to be sending his son, his  _ only _ son to fight for Athens. It would be his greatest honor and it was supposed to be my greatest honor, too. 

I was born quite a disappointment - weak, small, and a little stupid. My mother tells me of how she placed me in many children’s competitions, watching ruefully as I would stare at the ground, landing in last place over and over again until she gave up on finding any practical brilliance. By no means have I changed much - at eighteen, I still remain lanky and unskilled in the art of fighting - but, at the least, age has grown me smarter and a little more conscious. This is my greatest skill, my cunning craft. I am gifted in the art of judgment and intelligence, but this could never prove useful in the age of war and chaos, and so I remain as much of a failure as I was ten years ago.

“Your father, he seems pleased,” Niki says.

We sit in a field near the Pnyx, a small hill where all the government assemblies are held. The first assembly of the year is in half an hour, and my father has left me with the other sons and daughters while he stands nearby, blundering to the other men about his latest achievement; a bill he passed that put more funding towards the army. He pays no attention to what I do, only watching the older men laugh contently after he cracks a joke. I hear the joke as well. It wasn’t very funny.

I reply as I rip up the grass below my feet. “He does. I’m not sure why.”

“I think I know.”

“You do?” I perk up and lift my gaze, watching her closely as she picks yellow flowers from the ground. She is very beautiful - her elegance is said to not compare to any other girl in Athens, and they believe she was blessed by the goddess Aphrodite herself at birth.

“Isn’t today the army roll call, George?”

I remember now. It comes back to me, and a feeling rises in my chest, threatening to spill over. It’s bitter and metallic; I’m fighting to beat it down. It doesn’t move. Niki’s eyes are glued to me, watching for any signs of regret, or sadness, or even  _ joy,  _ and so I look the other way, at the endless plains of flowers and wheat, of hills that stretch out further than I see, of the places that hold my childhood, hidden away in tree trunks and damp soil.

“When does training start?” she asks, trying to fill the time. I lift my eyes from the horizon.

“In a few weeks. Maybe less.”

“How unfortunate,” her voice floats and I can’t help but envy her - she has known nothing but peace all her life. “ I wish I could fight. I think I would be a good fighter, what do you think?”

My gaze is back on the ground. I realize I have left a dead patch of lifeless grass, the pieces I have picked scattered amongst the dirt. “I think you would be a great fighter,” I say.

“You tend to lie a lot, George.”

“You think I was lying?”   
  


“No. I was just pointing out the obvious. But I think you could lie your way out of war if you really wanted to.”

Before I have time to think about what she had said, another person approaches us. His forehead glistens with beads of sweat and he is bothered and flushed with red.

“Karl! I haven’t seen you in a while,” I stand up to embrace him. His eyebrows are crossed in urgency and he doesn’t sit down.

“Yes...nice...seeing you…” he says between heavy pants. “The assembly’s starting soon…your father wants you at the Pnyx…”

I stand up, brushing the remnants of grass off my tunic. Niki stays sitting down, as she won’t be coming with me. Women weren’t allowed at assemblies, though her father would be attending. Her eyes dart between me and the Pnyx, and she wistfully sighs, returning to the flower crown she is making. I watch her untouched fingers glide along the stem of the daisies. We bond like siblings. I wish we were siblings.

“I’ll ask your father if he can perhaps organize a birthday celebration for you, seeing as your birthday is soon,” I suggest. Niki smiles softly.

“That would be nice.”

Karl and I trudge up to the Pnyx, where proceedings have been set up by slaves. Men have already taken to standing in the audience area, floored with rough stone, and able to fit thousands. I have known this place since birth; my father was adamant about taking me to every assembly, sitting me down to watch him propose his schemes and dismiss opposing ideas. He believes that one day, I will sit on the wooden chair just as he does, a part of the Council, a group of 500 men that run Athens with power and dignity. I feel my ancestors beaming down at me, their cold touch on my bare shoulder. They whisper words of promise to me, words of glory and honor if I do as they once did.

“Don’t fuck it up,” is what they also say.

In a matter of minutes, the assembly is settled. I stand amongst the crowd of a thousand, Karl next to me. He leans in to whisper.

“I heard Cleon was leaving the Council. Is he angry?”

“Why wou—” I start but cut myself off. I see what he means. To the side of the stage, Cleon is red-faced and argues with another man of the Council. Although he is old, he demands a say in the goings of the government. I cannot make out what he argues about, but it makes him furious and agitated until my father comes to calm him down with a drink.

“He should calm down, you know,” Karl laughs. “That much arguing can’t be good for him.”

“Neither can that much wine,” I add, watching my father pour another glass for Cleon. Karl and I face each other, both grinning and trying to contain our laughter. The men around us scoff at our childish remarks. My father’s eyes meet my own, and I immediately go dead faced again until he looks away and I laugh even harder with Karl. It isn’t particularly funny, but we may as well have our fair share of humor until we are both shipped off to army training camps in a matter of, what, weeks? Days? The thought crosses my mind and I start to feel ill again. I try to ignore it.

“Attention! Attention!” a man yells from the speaker’s platform. His voice booms across the hill and everyone looks up, dropping their conversations. Pericles is an old man, though he is one of the most important political figures and, supposedly, has never taken a day off in his life. You can tell by his wrinkles and sagging posture; my father says he will be gone soon, and he will take Pericles’ place. I tend to fear for that day.

“The Council has prepared the agenda!” he booms. “We will not be taking any further issues; if you have something to raise, Themis will be seeing to next month’s agenda.” Pericles gestures to the young man sitting behind him, a scroll in his hand. “Now for the first topic of interest, raised by Myron, ‘Merchants should be liable for any damage in the handling of goods before distribution’. Myron, if you could elaborate?”

The argument is longer than usual, and the men start to get restless early in. Karl and I play a game to pass the time: Who can name the most council members? I win most times, but sometimes I let him win, and rarely, he wins himself. By the time we finish our game, Myron is still shouting over Karpos, a merchant who seems to represent all the merchants in the area. He has good points, but Myron wins over the public and the debate is settled; Karpos and his merchant friends will simply have to go someplace else to sell their rotten fruit and cheap, worn down clothes that scam the citizens too often.

Another agenda item is brought up, something about the treatment of horses and chariot racing. I find it hard to draw my focus back to the speaker; the sun has risen fully and it beams down on me. Our hair is laced with dampness and the air is sticky. Helios, the sun god, must be upset. I bring my hand up, roughly running it through my hair which is unmoving and stiff, and I let out a breath of frustration at the irritating heat that’s prevailed all week.

My mind drifts off to unexplainable thoughts of muddled messes and swimming visions that I can’t control. I find myself ticking off time until the end of the assembly, until I can leave. Endless arguing and pointless debate never fit well with me; the premise of this so-called “government” is flawed and a life of bickering isn’t a life at all. My mind mumbles and melts more and more, the heat invades my vision until I feel something tugging me back, back into conscious, back into-

“George! George!” 

It’s Karl. The assembly has erupted into hysterical shouts and buzzing murmurs, the sun is burning hotter than ever. Karl shakes me back into reality and I curse under my tongue. I was hoping I could stay in my mind for a little longer, just for a little while, under the shade of my thoughts. He asks me if I’m okay. I reply solemnly, somehow feeling sleepy and only waist-high in real life. The tugging feeling still tries to pull me back.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“Good. Because the roll call is starting.”

My head feels hot again, the tugging feeling as strong as ever, luring me back into the dream-like state that I had just woken from. Maybe if it weren’t such a warm day, I might’ve let out a comprehensible sentence. Instead, I throw my head back, looking to the skies, as a weak, choked sound escapes my lips and rings in my ears. I plead with my mind,  _ please, please hold on for a moment more. Please. _

The assembly audience is hushed again. Karl looks troubled and a second away from breaking; lips parted, hair scrambled, looking to the ground and muttering a prayer to the gods.

“Why are you praying?” I whisper. He doesn’t lift his head, only his eyes travelling to meet mine.

“For good luck.” He says, as if it is obvious.

“Good luck? Karl...”   


“George.”

“It isn’t about luck-”

“George...”

“-and it never was.”

“George!” he yells. I draw back my tongue, it isn’t worth getting him riled up. His eyes are red with fury and his fist is balled up; I know I have gone too far. But he wouldn’t dare hit me. I know that.

“This war is putting our dignity on the line!” a booming voice states from the speakers platform. Karl and I both snap out heads to get a glimpse of the speaker. It’s Pericles again. “Our wives are on the line! Our children are on the line! Athens will prevail, Athens  _ must  _ prevail!”

The men in the audience start cheering. I mutter under my breath.

_ Athens must prevail. _

“Long live Athens!” Pericles booms again. His fist is raised, along with the crowd who roar louder. 

_ Long live Athens. _

A man gets out of his wooden seat, a scroll in his hand. In a monotonous voice, he reads out the names of men, who cheer and celebrate at the news of getting to represent their country in the highest honor of war. He reads out Karl’s name. Karl is emotionless and blank, face traced with tiredness. He has accepted it.

“ _ George, son of Alcaeus” _

I look to my father. He studies me, for any sign of vulnerability, sadness, anger. This is what he wants, he wants to see the last sign of weakness from me, the last sign of a boy growing into a man. A fury grows inside and it seeps in the cracks of my silent demeanor - I refuse to give him what he wants. 

And so I smile. A proud, jeering smile that feels unnatural. My father remains still, but for a second, I see something else in his face. I don’t know what, but I have done my job. He’s confused. 

The rest of the names are ticked off, fathers looking pleased and sons excited. Karl’s father is tucked at the back of the rows of wooden seats, a less engaged member of the Council. He chats with people around him. My father tells stories of how the Council conspires against him and his new age ideals - if he didn’t have as much money as he does now, he would’ve been plotted out the Council a while ago. His wife dead and only one son to carry the legacy, he is shadowed in secrecy amongst the aristocrats of Athens, surrounded by no one but his own son and a suspicious inheritance of money. 

Pericles lounges near the speakers platform, until another man motions for him to move onto the next agenda item. His white chiton - a piece of cloth around his torso - hangs limply from his body. I have heard noble stories of him and his fabled achievements; pillaging towns, bedding the most sought after women, and defeating gods bare-handed. But these fables are only myths, and besides, his days are long gone. Pericles can do nothing more than lavish in his legacy.

Legacy.

I start to think about my own legacy. At nineteen I remain young, but my mother talks of my fate like an inscription set in stone, like a tapestry woven out for me, where I can inspect every thread of every day of my life, leading up to the biggest picture; my legacy. For a man, his legacy is his biggest accomplishment in life. His most glorious feat is to be remembered in history, even after he passes to the afterlife. Riches and wars don’t compare to your story being handed down, generation after generation, in the hands of adults and children, of peasants and kings. Material things are temporary. A legacy is immortal.

As the son of Alcaeus, there is already much expected of me. Sometimes I wonder, if I had been born a slave, I might guarantee a more liberated life, the only requirement of me being to serve my master faithfully and without fail. The rest would be hazy blurs of games, free food and endless fun. But I am George, son of Alcaeus, and I run short of freedom but abundant of political tasks, event planning and questions of what legacy I will choose to lay down.

The sun dips below the hill, we bathe in a saturated, orange glow. It becomes dark quickly, and candles are passed around, lit and balanced on stands. I hear crickets chirping, their monotonous noise buzzing, alive and loud. The dusk has always grown to be my favorite part of the day since childhood where I would often roam around the fields and hills, aimlessly, sometimes running into people, other times all alone. Dusk was like reinvention, a re-incarnation of the day. Things happened at dusk that didn’t happen any other time. Like sunset. Like darkness. Like sneaking out to kiss boys.

But that is a story for another time.

“Okay, okay, calm everyone!” Pericles demands. “We’re almost done, almost, done, just one more thing to address.”

The crowd does not fall silent, but conversations lower down into murmurs.

“Select members of the Council have organized a special treaty with opposing forces, most notably, Sparta.”

Now the audience is dead silent, Pericles has chosen his words wisely.

“Now, before I am attacked with vile remarks on how I am making the worst decision since my marriage, let me explain. Athens and Sparta have been at war for years, yes, but you see we are a city-state of peace and culture.”

Men nod their heads, agreeing. I’m interested in where this will lead.

“War is certainly not what Athens is built for, and by the current state of things, we will not be able to conquer Sparta before they defeat us,” Pericles continues. “ Now, I am sure that many of the men here are thinking, _will I still be able to go to war?_ And many of you must be devastated at the thought of not fighting-”

Karl and I share a sideways glance, smirking just a bit.

“-but rest assured, if the treaty is not successful, our sons will still be shipped to Sparta in no time.”

I see relief on many people’s faces, many of them have trained their whole lives to fight. Looking all the way behind the rows of seats behind the speaker's platform sits Cleon, red faced and fuming. He doesn’t look too happy with this new arrangement.

“On that note, the Prince of Sparta will be visiting for a few months, discussing treaty matters, going to meetings and all that. Council members will be meeting with him on multiple occasions to try and negotiate some sort of agreement or treaty, possibly to end this war on permanent terms, with no lingering after effects. The Prince of Sparta will be taking the title of King of Sparta soon, and he goes by the name of…of…” Pericles looks behind him, asking his assistant something.

“...Dream. His name is Dream.”

Pericles turns back to his assistant, subtle confusion rising in his face, asking if he got the name right. He clears his throat again.

“Right, um, well it seems as last minute plans have changed, Cleon has decided to... _ not _ house Prince Dream during his time in Athens. Well, embarrassing as it is, I am humbly asking for any volunteers to... accommodate the prince during his few months here.”

The crowd has gone quieter, if that’s even possible. No one dares to speak, to utter a word. Nobody wants to accommodate a prince, least of all a  _ Spartan _ prince, the very enemy Athens has been fighting against for years and years on end to no avail. Men are already looking to the exit, scuffling to the back rows so they can be the first to leave. I grab Karl’s hand and we move through the audience. 

“I would be glad to accommodate the prince,” my father announces.

I whip my head around to see my father and his gleeful eyes and masterful grin. Pericles stays still for a moment, stunned. I couldn’t believe it.

“Pericles?” he asks, trying to get his withdrawn attention. The audience is fixated on my father who kicks back in his chair.

“Erm. Well then it’s settled. Uh. Alcaeus, you will accommodate the Prince of Sparta to the best of your abilities,” Pericles decides. He looks ready to dismiss the assembly, when he adds a final thought;

“Don’t fuck it up.”


	3. Royals and Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream's time in Sparta is ticking away, but irritating weather and duties eat up his days. A dinner party with a familiar face eases him up a bit, yet doubt and hints of grief still lay at the back of his mind.

“Dream! Dream!” yells a voice from the hall. 

I whip my head around and peak out of my door frame to see Drista, bounding through the hallways in search of me. She wears a white dress and her hair is unruly and crumpled, matching the irritated expression she bears.

“Dream! Where’s my brush?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug, “why ask me?”

She lets out a disgruntled noise and pushes past, bursting into my room, opening my drawers and compartments frantically. Chuckling, I lay back on my bed with my arms behind my head as I watch her pursuit.

“I swear! I saw it somewhere here!” Her silvery voice, laced with annoyance, carries through the room. Drista yells at me to help her, and so I push myself out of lounging, sighing as I start putting back the things she has carelessly thrown to the ground - a book, some tunics, a ring. After a moment, she crouches down to see under my dresser and reaches her hand out, grasping something small and wooden.

“I knew it! I knew it! You had it!” Drista snaps, confronting me. I raise my hands in defense as she starts to leave.

“I didn’t know  _ I  _ had it.”

I don’t get a response, as she slams the door behind her, just a little too harshly. After a moment of silence, I go out to the hallway, where she is rushing to her room, and call out to her. 

“Sorry!”

No response. I am about to go talk to her, but I think against it. I should let her get ready; the guests will be arriving soon enough. Instead, I wander through the house until I reach the back doors leading to the courtyard.

The weather has been stifling and scorching for the past weeks, forcing us to stay indoors, slaves to the unrelenting heat. Crops have died and rivers have dried and it’s turned the land into a rough, plain terrain of yellowed grass and dust. I guess it was fun, at first, to travel out to the lakes where I would swim in chilled waters and play games with Drista in the fields, where I would win, all the time. But after that, I noticed my unhealthy complexion and reddish sunburns that hurt to the touch, and I decided it best to stay inside. Now I spend my days sprawled on my bed, complaining about the dreadful weather or attending to some important legal matters with my father or training in the yard  _ while _ I complain about the dreadful weather. Drista points out that I whine too much.

Sometimes, however, there is a sweet spot that hits in the evenings, where a cooler breeze travels and eases the humidity that I have fought against. I know I'm not the only one who notices; slaves like to lounge outside when the wind is colder and my father will sometimes push my trainings until the evening. It's a lot nicer, this time of day. That might be something I miss when I leave Sparta. I wonder what kind of weather Athens has.

My back meets the grass as I lay down, turning to the sun. Loose strands of hair fall over my vision yet I have no energy to do anything, to get myself back up, to move. The sun is warm and soft and I melt into its touch and it lures me in. I stop feeling for a moment but at the same time, I feel everything. The sharpness of the grass and how the clouds sail so smoothly and the sound of birds nearby. I’m devoid of feeling, but it feels nice. Comforting. I wonder if the sun beams like this in Athens. My chin is tipped up to the skies, and I look to the sun for an answer, as if it could speak back to me.

I want it to stay this way.

I don’t think I want to leave, not just yet.

“Dream! They’re here!” my mother calls out from inside. I pull myself out of this trance and brush off blades of grass scattered over my chiton, regaining my regal posture.

Inside the dining hall sit my parents, leaning across the table, making loud conversation with the four people across from them. Sapnap, quietly picking at his food, brings his eyes up to my figure standing against the doorway, and he lightens up with a smirk. I exchange the expression.

“Ah! Dream of Sparta! What a pleasure to see you again,” Miltiades, father of Sapnap, exclaims. His booming presence crashes against me in a hug.

“Please, sir, just call me Dream.”

“Alright, Dream. What an unusual name, no?”

I chuckle and take a seat next to Drista, who entertains Sapnap’s baby brother with exaggerated faces until I nudge her to stop. Sapnap’s mother smiles.

The food is brought by a few slaves, steaming on silver plates. Some fish from the lakes, fruit from the market, fresh wine. Nothing unusual - Sapnap and his family have been friends of ours for years. As we dig in, our mothers make polite conversation and my father starts talking, in the hearty manner he does best.

“Sapnap, I’ve been hearing your humor has attracted a lot of attention around these parts,” he begins. Sapnap looks up from the giant fish he’s devouring. “ Is your tongue really as sharp as the things I’ve heard?”

Sapnap takes a second to finish the massive bite in his mouth.

“Well, sir, I’m not aware of what’s been going around but I would like to believe you’re right.”

My father’s laughter booms again, and he slaps a hand on my shoulder.

“You should give Dream a hand. He’s been complaining all week, the heat and all. Some laughter would do him good.”

“I’m sure he’s just a little tired.”   


I laugh at Sapnap’s formality. He is never this polite around me or anyone else.

‘See?” My father points back at me, “He needs to loosen up. On a similar note, some different arrangements are being made for Dream’s trip.”   


Everyone looks up from their plates.

“Someone else is hosting him. Some noble by the name of Alcaeus. He has a son, did you know that, Dream?”

I gulp. “No. I did not.”   


“Well, I think you would make good friends with him,” my mother states. 

Sapnap laughs, “well, don’t have too much fun there without me. I’ll be arriving a few weeks after you.”

‘Woah, way to spoil the party. Might have to make the  _ most _ out of those weeks you’re away.”

Sapnap playfully punches me, and I hit him back before he elbows me and we take light hits from one another. “Take it outside, boys,” my mother states, not looking away from her conversation.

We stumble outside, red-faced and still laughing. It is getting late, but I am glad to get away from the table. Sapnap seems as restless as I, and as I peer at the trees in a nearby field, I get an idea.

“Hey, Sapnap,” I point to a tree. “Race you there.”

“You’re gonna win. You always do.”   


“Whatever. I won’t. You can get a head start.”   


“Fine.”

“Three,” I start counting down. “Tw-”

Before I can finish, Sapnap pushes off and is already paces ahead of me. I shake my head and race after him.

“ _ Aphòdeuma! _ Shit!” I yell as I catch up to him. He tries pushing me away, responding, “ _ es kòrakas _ , fuck off!” I take a breath and power ahead of him, my feet beating the ground with the force of a fighter but the grace of a dancer. That’s how he describes my running.

I reach the tree first, letting my back fall against the trunk. My hair is damp with sweat and my deep breaths ring and throb in my head. Sapnap jogs his way and looks almost angry, shaking his head as he sits down.

“You said you would let me win!” He exclaims, throwing his arms in the air. Brown strands brush against his eyes.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. You started it.”

“I went first because you let me have a headstart!”

“You could’ve told me!”

Sapnap quiets down again, turning his head away. He tears up a leaf in his hands, annoyance leaving him.

“It’s hard to be mad at someone like you,” he says after a while. My head turns, hair whipping my face.

“What does that mean?”   


“You’ve seen your running, right? Do you know how fast you are?”

“Well. Yeah. But it isn’t a big deal,” I shake off.

“No. It kinda is,” Sapnap continues. His voice is devoid of anything. “The way you run, the way your eyes light up with thrill, how your feet hit the ground. How could I be mad at losing to something like that?”

“Sapn-”   
  


“I don’t know. I’ve seen you do it a thousand times over. You’re something else, Dream. It’s weird.”

I get a feeling in my gut. “Dude. Are...Do you-”

“I know what your question is. The answer is no.” The feeling escapes. “ I’m just saying…”

“Mhm?”

“...Nevermind. Forget it.”

“No. Say it.”

“Shut up. You’re so fucking stubborn.”

I laugh again, for what must be the fifth time in the last half an hour. Maybe my father was right. Sapnap makes me laugh easier. The sun has already dipped under the land and specks of light come from houses far away, like grounded stars, like a painting. Maybe this is what I will miss when I leave. A land of war has its odd moments of calm, too.

“We better get going,” Sapnap comments. I stand up and grab his hand, lifting him up. He slips and falls in a blunder of giggles, before getting up himself. We walk back to my house, kicking stones and telling jokes.

Maybe this is what I will miss the most.


End file.
